


Winter in the Vein

by Catastra_Fey



Series: Into The World Of Darkness [4]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - World of Darkness (Games) Setting, Biting, Blood Drinking, Consensual Sex, Dark Magic, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Ghoul Matsukawa Issei, Human Hanamaki Takahiro, Light Erotic Asphyxiation, M/M, Mind Altering Magic, No F/M explicit content, Non-Graphic Violence, Temperature Play, Vampire Oikawa Tooru, Vampire Politics, Vampire Turning, Villain Kita Shinsuke, cold skin, non-sexual servant/master relationship, one non-sex related but well deserved face slap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:22:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26251843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catastra_Fey/pseuds/Catastra_Fey
Summary: Oikawa Tooru may be an old and powerful vampire, but the weakness of clan Toreador is one that he relishes. The curse that makes his skin icy cold prevents him from experiencing so much in the mortal realm, so when he hears of an artist who's work will likely quite literally enthrall him, he throws caution to the wind. Which is never something that vampires have the luxury to do. He finds far more than he bargains for in Hanamaki Takahiro, a man who's lust for life draws many eyes, including those of true monsters.
Relationships: Hanamaki Takahiro/Oikawa Tooru, Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru, Matsukawa Issei/Shimizu Kiyoko
Series: Into The World Of Darkness [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1711276
Comments: 34
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oh hello friends! It has been awhile but I hope you didn't think I would forget this lovely world! So let's talk about a few things. 
> 
> Like that Dubious Consent tag. Just to be clear, all the sex in this story is completely consensual. I included this tag because the way I write the vampire bite is highly sexualized, and within this story there is a scene where a human is bitten (okay and also kissed quite fervently) while under the influence of a mood altering magic. The magic works a bit like a temporary love spell and I just felt that it was best to warn for something like that, even though it wasn't directly related to the explicit content. So proceed at your comfort level!
> 
> You may notice that this is Part 4 of a series. It's not actually necessary for you to have read any of the other stories to appreciate this one. They would give a bit of context to what's going on, but I tried to give definitions and short explanations where needed, assuming you're not familiar with the VtM lore. You definitely don't have to be. One thing I do need to spell out for you though is about ghouls, since we are going to jump right into that. 
> 
> Ghouls are created when vampires give a human some of their blood without draining them first. This creates a supernatural bond that makes the ghoul loyal to the vampire as well as improves their physical (and sometimes magical) abilities tremendously. Vampire blood is basically addictive as well, so the ghoul is also tied to them in that regard. If they continue to be given vampire blood, ghouls do not age. They can be weened off of it and become fully human again, but it's a rough process. They are essentially trusted human servants of the vampire, but retain all of their own personality and decision making skills, they are just uniquely and incredibly loyal to their vampire master. While this is definitely a setup for a toxic relationship, the ghoul/vamp relationship in this story is pretty healthy for still being an imbalance of power. 
> 
> Okay, that's enough of that warning and exposition! Please enjoy, if you've stuck around, and don't hesitate to hit me up with any questions, either in the comments or you can find me on tumblr at https://catastrafey.tumblr.com/

“This is a stupid idea, Tooru.” 

Oikawa smirked slightly. He knew that Iwaizumi was serious when he used his given name like this, that it was meant to warn, but he ignored it. When one became as old and powerful as they were, there was a romance to danger that mortality could never fully understand. There was so rarely an opportunity for someone as remarkable as Oikawa to be truly vulnerable and when the chance presented itself...he had to taste it. 

They entered through the arching gallery doors, recognized by the doorman, and Oikawa shifted his gaze to see the auras of the many people gathered there. The colors were varied but all were vibrant, mortal auras, only one standing out to him as slightly different. That of the owner of the gallery, Oikawa's ghoul Matsukawa Issei, as he made his way toward them.

“Not to worry Iwa-chan, we are the only monsters in attendance tonight.” He tossed his perfect chestnut hair so that it flashed under the angled lights, drawing the attention of surrounding patrons. He didn't even need to use his abilities to gain draw their gaze. Iwaizumi just glowered at him, unamused. 

“Oikawa-san, I'm so glad you could make it tonight. I've arranged a seat for you to observe the guest artist, as you requested.” Matsukawa gave a small smile, his deep voice resonating pleasantly. He was perfect, as always, in his deep black three piece suit, with nothing but a silver feathering on his tie to give any life to it. He looked like he should have been an undertaker, not a gallery owner and art critic. He looked like a vampire. Oikawa loved that about him. 

“You said he's a bit unrefined, yes? Will I find him pleasing?” Oikawa's words were nearly oozing with his anticipation, and Iwaizumi scoffed in disgust. A thoughtful expression crossed Matsukawa's face and he hummed, tapping one long finger against his lips. 

“Hmm, I can't really say. I've become friends with him as you instructed, and I find him very amusing, but whether he will be to your tastes...I'm not sure.” How intriguing. Matsukawa was meticulous, excellent with instruction and prone to a style of morbid humor that Oikawa found delightful. But he had been the Toreador's ghoul for almost four decades now and knew him better than anyone other than Iwaizumi, so his confoundment was an intrigue all its own. 

They cut through the throng, who parted before Oikawa, every eye lingering on him as he passed. They whispered about him and he reveled in it. Many nights he would use his magic to draw their eyes even more, perhaps seduce one young and lovely life to follow him to the back room. There, Matsukawa would draw their blood while they were under Oikawa's trance, and they would go their merry way never knowing how close they had brushed to death. 

A large incomplete sculpture came into view, draped in wet cloth to keep the clay pliant. A man came around the corner, setting down a large bucket of water. His aura danced in bright warm colors, the signs of happiness, excitement, contentment, and idealism. It was a beautiful color for an artist. Seldom did they not have darker hues of sadness and loneliness. It was terribly refreshing. 

“Hanamaki-san,” Matsukawa said, and the man turned, revealing himself fully to Oikawa. His hair was short and dyed a light pink color and his eyes were dark, a stormy gray. His build was very close to Oikawa's, similar height, slim but muscular, lovely in an innocent way that spoke of untempered inspiration. His thin eyebrows raised slightly as he looked at Oikawa, gaze flickering over him in a way that made the vampire smile with a knowing glance to Matsukawa. 

“You must be Oikawa-san. Mattsun talks a lot about you. I...uh...well I admit, I didn't entirely believe him until now. You're...really something.” He extended a hand in greeting and Oikawa smiled slightly, never breaking eye contact, his arms remaining crossed over his chest. He honestly hated not partaking in the customary handshake, but too many questions arose from it. 

It was a bitter irony, a twist of fate that Oikawa would carry forever. He was an old and powerful member of clan Toreador, a Primogen in this city, the clan most in tune with the human world and aesthetic. Despite this fact, despite being in love with mortal life, the embrace had brought with it a terrible curse for Oikawa. It wasn't unheard of, a side-effect of unlife that sometimes bled through to their body. He was so very, very cold.

Not just chilled, not even just as deathly cold as a corpse, no, Oikawa's cold emanated from him like winter through glass. An unnatural cold that withered plants when he brushed against them and that made the beautiful vibrant humans he so adored flinch away from his touch. It was why he never fed directly from them, why he didn't touch them unless it was to frighten, why he couldn't fuck them like the beautiful hedonists that they were. It pained him, but he had spent over a century learning to live with it. It was why he wore the elaborate jewelry that encased his fingers in metal and tipped them with wicked looking points. It was why his clothes covered every inch of flesh they could while still showing his striking face (and in the latest fashion, of course). It was why, instead of taking Hanamaki's hand his eyes moved to the tattoo on his forearm and he merely bounced a single perfect eyebrow at the human.

“Hanamaki Takahiro, the pleasure is all mine, but please, do explain your rather unique tattoo?” Oikawa fluttered his eyeslashes a bit, but rather than getting as flustered as he had hoped, Hanamaki simply grinned and scratched the back of his head.

“Oh, uh, it's a pizza. But one of the slices is watermelon. I dunno, seemed like a great idea at the time. Anyway, I should get to work.” Hanamaki snuck a glance to Matsukawa who nodded sagely, however Oikawa noticed a slight tilt at the side of his mouth. When the young artist turned away, Oikawa leaned into Matsukawa conspiratorially.

“Mattsun, eh? Hmmm... If I didn't know any better, I'd say you like him.” Matsukawa turned to him slightly, raising one thick dark eyebrow and letting that grin spread.

“I do like him. He is funny and odd. But wait until you see him work.” As Hanamaki began removing the wet cloths from the sculpture, Oikawa took a seat, the only one, just behind the gold cords. Iwaizumi stood just behind him preparing to take full guard. 

The sculpture was modern and abstract, all weaving and splayed in a dizzying pattern. Hanamaki pulled off the thin t-shirt he was wearing revealing a dizzying array of tattoos and making the crowd murmur at his boldness. As his hands dipped into the water bucket up to his elbows though, Oikawa understood why. He leaned forward in his chair as the artist's hands fell upon the clay. It was perfect. He was perfect. Moving with grace and purpose over the the uneven surface, adding clay here and there, his whole body moved with the work, brow crinkled in concentration. Each stroke of his hands pulled Oikawa deeper and he clutched the arms of the chair too tightly.

This was it. It was exactly as he had hoped and he would never tire of this. It was known as clan Toreador's weakness, but it was exactly what made Oikawa feel alive. A certain beautiful thing could claim them entirely, leave them enraptured in its glory, unable to do anything but gaze upon it with rapt attention. This was how it was for Oikawa when an artist used their hands and body to create like this. It wasn't the piece so much as the act of its creation, raw and almost erotic in how primal a full body artist became while they brought shape and life to deadened material. It had been over a decade since he had found one and the utter ecstasy of witnessing once again entranced him entirely. He wanted to possess it. He needed it to be his. 

It felt like only seconds passed until Iwaizumi was barking at the artist to stop for a moment. As Hanamaki pulled back, his breaths heavy from exertion and beads of sweat along his skin, Oikawa felt in control of his limbs once again. He sat back and released a breath, lids heavy, and he looked at the artist with a new hunger. 

“Hey, what's up?” Hanamaki asked, dragging his arm across his forehead. Oikawa stood and the crowd around them hushed. The artist looked uneasy, his eyes finding Matsukawa once again, however the ghoul was focused on Oikawa. Oikawa leaned close to whisper his icy breath against the ghoul's skin.

“Place my bid and arrange a private showing. He's perfect. You've done well. Now, we just have to keep the jackals off of him. No offense, Iwa-chan.” Oikawa winked at the other vampire who scowled in response. Iwaizumi was also a Primogen, the leader, of clan Gangrel in this city, noted for their animal manifestations. While Iwaizumi's animal ken was a wolf, Oikawa delighted in teasing him about it in the worst ways possible. He turned back to Hanamaki who was working at a fold in the clay diligently, his tongue poking out the side of his mouth. 

“Hanamaki-san, it was a pleasure watching you work. Your skills are exceptional. I hope we shall meet again.” The artist turned, passing him a blinding grin and a thumbs up. The splashes of color from his tattoos were muted by the clay that was now smeared on his chest and stomach. Dark metal still stood out where bars pierced his nipples. What an intriguing individual indeed. 

“Yeah, sounds good. You can just call me Makki, everyone else does. Mattsun can give you my card if he hasn't already. Love to show you some of my completed works sometime.” Makki wiped across his eyes, his fingers leaving smudges of clay over his cheek. 

Careless, dirty, sparkling but edgy in appearance. Contemporary. Unique. Oikawa felt a throb in his fangs. It wasn't any particular thing that drew Oikawa, or most Toreador for that matter. But sometimes, when all the right colors and shapes coalesced together just perfectly, much like a vibrant impressionist work, the picture which materialized was stunning. That was Hanamaki. 

In all his skilled power of perception, his singular focus missed the shift on Matsukawa's face. A tightness of the mouth and slight furrowing of the brow. A crease of mortal worry. 

***

Makki threw himself back onto the old sofa in Mattsun's flat, cracking open a can of beer with a loud pop. Mattsun sat next to him, raising his own beer to tap against Makki's with a grin. They both took a long draw from the cans, cheap domestic shit that Makki always brought and Mattsun always drank without complaint. The few lamps lit around the place did little to brighten the dark walls and darker décor. Weirdly enough, he absolutely loved it.

Mattsun leaned back, letting his head fall against the back of the couch and Makki smirked at him. Free of his stuffy three piece suit, he now sported pajama pants and a white t-shirt, his button up shirt open, but still on over the plain t. When they'd first met, about two years ago now, he'd thought Mattsun was just another stilted, pompous business man, but he'd learned quickly that that wasn't the case at all. His humor was exceedingly dry and sarcastic, morbid even, and Makki loved it. He was an excellent critic, with a great eye for details but a kind and straightforward delivery. Makki's skill had grown considerably since they had become closer friends and he was grateful.

Mostly though, he just enjoyed being around Matsukawa. The guy was chill, unruffled, easy to talk to and be around. They didn't have many heavy discussions, but that wasn't something Makki really wanted in a friend anyway. Mattsun had become more than just a colleague, more even than a friend. He was his best friend. Looking over at him now, his long body stretched across the couch and coffee table, an unmistakable warmth glowed in Makki's chest.

“Dude, you really weren't kidding about that Oikawa guy. Whew, it's almost creepy how good-looking he is. It's weird, he gives off all the old-man eccentric vibes, but he can't be that much older than we are.” Makki was only 25, a college drop out, and Mattsun was just a couple years older. He wondered how it was that his tall, dark, and handsome friend had come to own a gallery and have his amount of connections by his age, but it didn't really matter. He watched Mattsun light up one of his signature clove cigarettes, offering it to Makki which he declined, as always. 

“I told you. He's quite the man. He loved your work by the way. Wants to arrange a private viewing of your pieces. He's ready to put down a bid. You'd be wise to give him your attention.” Matsukawa did that thing where he set his features so nothing showed through, which seemed weird if this was truly no more than a business proposition. Makki took another swig of his beer. 

“A private showing, huh? This isn't some kind of weird sex thing is it? I mean, I'm down if it is, that guy is way outta my league, but be real with me.” Matsukawa tensed at his words, passing him an incredulous look. 

“You wish.” Most people would never pick up on the subtle way that Matsukawa showed discomfort, but Makki had gotten to know him pretty well. The artist was actually very observant. He masked that trait by appearing always distracted, perhaps even a little dumb, but he was anything but. He noticed Mattsun take an extra deep puff from his cigarette, the way his other hand tightened around his beer. 

Sometimes he wondered if Matsukawa was in love with this Oikawa guy. He'd never said a single bad thing about him, a level of odd respect that didn't seem to exist in anyone else. Mattsun got a bit twitchy and uncomfortable if they spoke too much about the alluring eccentric. Usually those were the times he lit up one of the little black smokes, as if he were trying to fulfill some deeper craving and failing. Makki thought maybe he had a secret substance abuse problem that was tied with Oikawa. He'd known a fair share of tweakers in his day, and how they acted when they were suffering from the hard edges of withdrawal, talking about their dealer, but honestly, it was none of his business either way. 

“Eh, you know I have low standards for a reason.”

“Because you're lazy.”

“Oh, you sayin I'm hot enough to have high standards?” 

“Of course, Makkun.” Matsukawa was giving him that sly look as he leaned over, taking another slow drag on the little black cigarette. It made Makki's lips twitch into a grin. They were no strangers with flirtation and Makki had to admit, Matsukawa was handsome as hell. He would be the perfect friend with benefits, hot, fun, easy-going, and private enough to keep emotions out of it. But every time Makki pressed against the physical boundary, Matsukawa withdrew. When he did, Makki respected that, but it didn't stop him from the constant hope and suggestion that his friend might let things slip further. 

“Make out with me then, you slag,” Makki replied, wetting his lips and leaning back, holding Matsukawa's gaze. Mattsun's dark eyes narrowed and he gave a single chuckle as he flicked the ash from his cigarette.

“Nah,” he said nonchalantly, and Makki couldn't help but laugh at the way he so effortlessly dodged him. They were both laughing then, filling the dark space of Mattun's apartment with mirth, so different from the atmosphere of the gallery downstairs. 

“So your rich eccentric with the thousand yard stare, what do I gotta do for him?”

“Just show him your finished pieces and then work on your current product in front of him for a bit. He'll be satisfied. He'll probably even buy something.” There it was, that shift again. More pronounced this time as Mattsun's gaze found the wall and cast far beyond. 

“You sure I don't have to sleep with him. Because I would. Like, woo, would I ever.”

“I'm sure. Don't mind it if he stares.”

“Are you sure you're not sleeping with him, Mattsun?” Matsukawa gave a cold scoff, taking a pull on his smoke with a hand that gripped too tight. 

“Definitely not. He's not my type.”

“Bullshit. That dude is everyone's type.” Makki weighed the silence as Mattsun avoided his eyes, but decided to crack at the ice. “You know, if he's got you into something bad...you could tell me, yeah?” Makki was trying to keep it chill but Mattsun gave him a side-eye and sighed heavily.

“Just don't be a dick. That guy will eat you for breakfast, literally.”

“Literally. Sounds hot. I'm gonna bank on this being a sex thing.” Matsukawa rolled his eyes, laughing in that almost mirthless way he had about him.

“Don't worry, you'll be able to fend him off.”

“How's that, then?”

“Just be yourself.” They both erupted into laughter and Makki swatted him as Mattsun took out their deck of cards, shuffling them expertly. Life was good. Another buyer would get him through a few more months of rent and the ability to stay in this city and hang out more with his best friend. Makki felt at peace, content, and he couldn't hope for anything more.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***

Hanamaki's flat was chaotic in a dizzying way that made Oikawa's aesthetic tastes shriek. The apartment was small and dark, only two small windows on one wall, and Makki's art pieces were shoved haphazardly around the room. A worn looking brown couch sat in the corner with a small yellow table next to it, the only furniture to adorn the place. The walls looked like they had once been black, but someone had taken a large paintbrush to them and placed streaks of color in mad slashes, enough to draw the eye but strangely not enough to detract from the sculptures. If anything, it seemed to highlight them in an inexplicable way. It felt like a one room rave before the lights went down. Clean and neat but savage and wild, all in the same vein. 

“Your décor is rather...brutal.” He saw Iwaizumi grimace out of the corner of his eye at his words and he smiled.

“Don't mind him, Hanamaki-san. He's a complete ass.” 

Makki seemed unfazed. He'd been quiet since letting them in a few minutes ago, allowing them to walk around in silence. He didn't put on any airs, wearing only a pair of long shorts and a hoodie, the zipper pulled halfway down and revealed some of his bare chest. He was barefoot, something that seemed so odd within the world of etiquette and propriety that Oikawa was used to. Makki's shoulders hunched a bit, but his eyes were keen as he watched the two of them survey his work. 

“I'm not offended. I meant for it to be brutal.” His tone was so nonchalant and Oikawa turned to him, quirking one eyebrow as he flashed him a hint of teeth.

“Oh and what would you know of brutality, young Makki?” Oikawa used a playful lilt but the challenge was still clear. Makki's eyes narrowed slightly, a hint of a pinch between his eyebrows. 

“Come on, man. I'm 25, you can't be that much older than me. And who cares what I know of it? Knew enough to make you feel it, didn't I?” There was just an edge of smugness in his words and Oikawa felt himself salivate. Little punks always thought they were hot shit and it was a divine pleasure to bring them to their knees. He took a step toward the young artist, the metal tips of his silver finger casements scraping gently against the surface of one statue. Oh, now that got a reaction, as Makki jerked, anger brushing along his features. “Hey, be careful! Don't scratch that! I mix those glazes myself, the color can't just be recreated!”

“If I buy it, I can do whatever I want with it. Scratch it, break it apart, destroy it entirely.” Oikawa lifted his faux claws from the surface, leaving no mark behind, but bringing them playfully to his lips. “That's the price you pay when you sell your work.” 

“You want to pay ten grand for a pile of rubble, that's your business. I don't care what you get out of it, as long as I can make rent.” Makki's face had taken on that slack, uncaring look again, but he was on edge now. His aura was static and there was a satisfaction to knowing that Oikawa has so easily riled him up. He stepped closer and Makki leaned back, but didn't retreat. Stubborn. Oikawa liked that.

“It's not about what I get, Makkun. It's about what I take from you.” He smiled wickedly as Makki swallowed, a thin sheen of sweat appearing on his forehead. Lovely. He was lovely like this, so unsure and off balance. His eyes flickered to Iwaizumi, who wasn't even looking at them. 

“Right. Well. They're all on sale, regardless. Except the piece I'm working on. That's up for auction, so there are bidders for it. You can't buy it outright.” Hanamaki turned, hands buried deep in the front pocket of his hoodie as he headed toward one of the two doors in the little apartment. 

Oikawa could buy it outright. He could offer Makki millions for it. He could even more easily flex his power and entrance the artist, and Hanamaki would beg him to take it, to destroy it if he wished, to give him nothing and take everything he had. 

He drew the reins tight on that flutter of temptation. Too risky. Iwaizumi would be cross about it, lecture him on the rules, make him see to the consequences, and he didn't want to deal with that. He just wanted to toy with this man who had no idea the power he held and no idea how vulnerable he was because of it. 

He led them back to the single bedroom which was empty except for his work in progress, the same one from the gallery they'd seen last week. The windows were covered with newspaper, thick enough that even in the daylight hours, the room would be dark. A lone lamp was in the room, the bulb naked, a long extension cord leading to a plug. When Makki flicked it on, harsh shadows jumped around the room. Clay was caked along the lamp's body, a clear sign of it being handled constantly as Makki worked. Two folding chairs sat to the side of the piece, placed at the edge of heavy plastic sheeting that lined the floor. Clay footprints were smeared all over it. Makki paid them no mind as he crossed to the piece, pulling the damp cloth off of it. 

“Uh, can I ask why you wanted to watch me work on it? That's a weird request. I'm not...I'm no performer or anything. I move the light around a lot and things get messy. I'm not careful in here. The clay takes all of me, so I can't...” He stumbled over his words and Oikawa recognized a light flush to his features. He understood what was happening. It was a part of why he had requested this. 

“That is what I wish to see, Hanamaki-san. This is your inner sanctum, a place where few others have had the privilege to be, no less to witness when you lose yourself in your work. I wish to see your creation in its rawest form. That is the art that I live for. I want to see the side of you that no one else sees.”

Makki looked at Iwaizumi again, as if hoping to find more answers there, but the Gangrel was stone-faced. Makki finally gave up, shrugged, and pulled off his hoodie, standing with his back to them. Oikawa took a seat. Iwaizumi remained standing. The artist dipped his hands and forearms into the water in the bucket at his feet. 

The first flex of his muscles drew Oikawa like a noose around his neck. The first slap of wet hands against the clay hung him. He was captive to the way Makki worked. He seemed to dance around the thing, his only partner the lonely lamp which was pulled along at odd intervals. He would hum or puff out his cheeks, his expressions lively and varied. Every movement was like a symphony of creation, his body the conduit for a power beyond perception. Other artists had paralyzed Oikawa with their form before, but never had it been so immediate and so thorough. 

Time seemed lost, both frozen and rushing all around him. At one point, Makki whipped a hand back and clay splattered against the floor and across Oikawa's fine clothes, and he felt his fangs extend in excitement. The muscles in Makki's back moved hypnotically beneath bright tattoos and Oikawa lost himself like a rivulet between each one. If felt like days and no time at all when Iwaizumi's voice broke the quiet. 

“Hanamaki-san, if you could please stop for a moment.” Makki drew back from the piece, breathing heavily, clay smeared and spattered all over him. Immediately Oikawa was jerked back into control and he stood with a jolt. Such a wondrous thing. Such a perfect craft. He ground his teeth with the need to claim. 

“Sorry, I always lose track of time when I work. Sorry if it was boring for you. Oh...shit, there's clay on your clothes.” He took a step toward Oikawa but Iwaizumi stepped between them.

“It's not a problem. It's been over two hours we should-”

“Leave us, Hajime.” Oikawa's command was harsh enough that Iwaizumi's head whipped around in surprise, his eyes wide. 

“Tooru...” he warned, but a quick movement of Oikawa's hand cut him off. Orange sparks of fear twinkled in Makki's aura, alluring against his warm, vibrant colors. No hint of it was on his face or body language, but knowing that secret was a delicious advantage. As the door clicked behind Iwaizumi, he met Makki's eyes with a predatory intent.

“Should I have stopped him from leaving?” Makki asked, all cool nonchalance, but there was a hint of tightness to his voice that gave away his nervousness. He moved so that the sculpture was at his back, perhaps to protect it after Oikawa's earlier comments. It was a foolish move, as two long strides brought Oikawa close to him, now pinned between the clay and the vampire. He sucked in a breath and his face flushed, chin still angled downward. Oikawa liked this, a wary submission, not that it would be needed. 

“He is of no consequence, Makki-chan. But you...you are something rare and perfect. It is a dangerous thing to be in an imperfect world.” Oikawa raised one hand and Makki's eyes flicked to it in alarm, the silver glinting in the lamplight. Deep red and dark blue swirled in his aura, clear signs of arousal and suspicion. He was no doubt feeling vulnerable, bare chested and alone. He could likely already feel the cold radiating from Oikawa. One sharp metal claw barely pressed against Makki's shoulder and trailed down to his elbow, leaving goosebumps and a clean line in the clay in its wake. Makki shivered. 

“Listen...I, uh...if you want to, mess around, we can...but if you try to hurt me, I can defend myself.” A flash of defiance in Makki's haze of arousal sparked the hunter further in Oikawa and he laughed low and suggestive. 

“No, you can't.” He let the magic drip into Makki, the power of his entrancement almost as strong as Makki's unwitting affect on him. He watched his gray eyes dim a bit, his muscles slacken. His mouth fell open and a hot breath huffed out as the grip of false adoration wrapped around him. 

What should have felt like a victory instead stung with disappointment. Oikawa's brow creased. This press of magic was not sharp, not like the dominating abilities of some of the other clans which left their thralls an empty shell or took the strings like a marionette. The entrancement merely bent the emotion of someone, leaving them in a state of faux love, willing and wanting, but maintaining their own personality and creativity. Oikawa had excellent control of it, would hold a mortal for only as long as he desired. But the bright and scintillating colors of Makki's aura slowed and faded under the magic's pressure, the blue of love inspired by it washing out the rest of his emotions. 

“Yeah, anything...anything you want, Oikawa-san,” Makki whispered, almost drunk-sounding as he gazed at Oikawa's mouth. 

“What do you want, Hanamaki-san?” He didn't know what he was saying. Metal claws dragged lightly from Makki's throat down his chest to his taut stomach, leaving stark lines in the smeared clay. One of Makki's hands lifted slowly to Oikawa's face, fingers warm and slippery from the clay as they traced his jawline. The artist didn't flinch away. He should have, even under the magic.

“You're so cold. I want...I want to heat you up...” In an echo of the heartbeat he must have once had, Oikawa froze. He didn't stop Hanamaki from pressing against him, from meeting his lips with burning hot ones.

There was a flicker of panic in the vampire's chest. No one had touched him like this in so long, half a century or more. It was a risk with the entrancement, but usually when used it it was from a further distance and Matsukawa or Iwaizumi were there to act as a buffer between him and the source of his hunger. There was good reason for this. The last time a human under entrancement had touched him, a young woman who's face he would remember for ever, the shock of touching his freezing skin had shocked her out of the magic and she had screamed in horror at him. Horror. As if he was a terrible beast and not a beautiful one. It had filled him with rage and he had struck her down. An innocent woman. Her soul was a mark upon his that could never be erased. 

But as Hanamaki gripped him more tightly, as his achingly hot tongue slid against Oikawa's mouth hungrily, begging for entrance, he felt like Icarus approaching the sun. He felt raw in a way that was new, a slave to temptation that was more than just hunger for the first time in so long. Want coiled within him, focus torn from pulse points to other tantalizing parts of Makki's body. Oikawa grabbed one of his wrists and pressed him back against the clay, his fangs extending as his other hand pushed Makki back by the throat. 

Makki's face and chest were flushed, his pupil's blown wide and he gave no resistance as Oikawa pinned his arm against the clay. The metal claws sank deep into the sculpture, scoring it roughly, but neither of them noticed. The scent of his skin was dizzying, the strong hammering of his heart a tightening snare. But even as his gaze sharpened upon the artery in Makki's neck, he was drawn back to his face, near pleading in want. 

“I wonder if you would have yielded so sweetly of your own volition...” He tightened his grip, angling Makki's chin up to reveal more succulent throat and the artist whined. He couldn't wait anymore. He had to taste him. 

The strike was fast, violent, a reflection of his own need, and the feel of his fangs sinking into Makki's warmth was ecstasy. Hot blood filled his mouth, sweet and ambrosial, so much better than the cooling second-hand blood he had grown accustomed to. Makki cried out in pleasure as his body clenched, back arching against the sculpture, pressing more firmly into Oikawa. He tasted like indecent innocence, sunlight on a den of sin, ruinous in its intensity. He'd forgotten, perhaps had never so thoroughly relished, how mortals experienced the bite, pleasure ripping through them like a hurricane.

He was drowning in the rapture of it when a distant voice pulled at him. There was an intrusion, a hand upon his shoulder, a gruff voice close to his ear.

“...Tooru, if you don't stop, you'll kill him.” Iwaizumi's voice was low and even, but the words brought back the face of the young woman, splattered with blood in the snow. It was enough to release his latch on the man, to lick at the wound so that it closed around punctures. Makki was unconscious, held up only by the sculpture and Oikawa's grip on him. Oikawa took a shuddering breath and stepped back, letting Iwaizumi take the weight of artist from him. 

He carried him back out to the living room, Oikawa following them in a daze. Iwaizumi set the young man on the couch, unfolding a blanket and covering him with it. He looked pale now, and drawn. He'd taken too much. Still, his blood burned in Oikawa's veins like a drug, the whole world seeming brighter and warmer because of it. 

“Are you okay?” Iwaizumi asked, true concern in his voice. He stepped up close, swiped at the clay on Tooru's face with a thumb, but the gentleness in it was striking.

“You should have let me kill him, Hajime. It would have saved me so much trouble.” Iwaizumi's green eyes peered into his and for the first time so long, he saw once again the handsomeness of his features. He remembered the time when they were lovers, ages ago, before their humanity had stripped them of such desires. He felt it bloom somewhere deep within him as he watched Iwaizumi's lips in their tight line. 

“You didn't want that. It would have hurt you.” 

Such naked emotion was overwhelming. His friend was usually so gruff that his moments of true devotion were always impactful, but so soon after what had happened... The dam within Oikawa broke, the tide human emotion streaming forth. He shoved Iwaizumi against the wall and locked their mouths together, plunging his tongue into the Gangrel's hot mouth. Iwaizumi made a noise of surprise, his eyes widening as his hands clenched around Oikawa's upper arms. He pushed him back to gasp, despite not needing the air.

“Tooru, what are you doing?” he cried out, trying regain his balance. Oikawa slid a hand under his shirt, pressing with his claws, hard enough to leave a mark but not to break the skin.

“Don't you remember, Hajime? How we would tear each other apart under the moonlight? All teeth and claws, a vicious and wild slaking that left us feeling human again, if only for that brief moment? Don't you miss it?” He nipped at Iwaizumi's neck but his oldest friend had finally regained his footing. His superior strength won out as he grabbed Oikawa, jerking him toward the wall and swapping their position before he stepped back out of Oikawa's reach. 

“No! And you only miss it right now because you're blood drunk! I have no interest in this passing urge of yours. If you need to go fuck some mortal to get it out of your system, be my guest. But we grew past that decades ago and I'm not about to revisit it. Pull yourself together. You're acting like a freshly turned neonate.”

Anger flooded his senses, indignant rage that felt almost as powerful as the lust had. He felt the mask begin to slip, the beast begin to emerge, and he watched Iwaizumi's face tighten in fear for just a moment before he stepped forward. His open hand cracked across Oikawa's face hard, not his full strength thankfully, but enough to sting immensely. It was enough though. Enough to bring him back around, to let that flood of humanity recede enough that he could focus.

“If you dare to use your dread gaze on me again, I will put you down, Oikawa.” His voice was all edge now, every shred of caring gone, but it was due. He couldn't believe he had so carelessly tried to use his magic against his greatest ally. He blinked at the floor as he held his face, shame overtaking him as he avoided Iwaizumi's penetrating stare. 

“I-I'm so sorry. I don't...I don't feel myself.” It wasn't the entire truth. In a way, Oikawa felt more himself than he had in many decades. 

“Let's get out of here. We need to talk about what to do about him. If he remembers anything, Matsukawa can run damage control. Come on, let's get you cleaned up.” It was only then that Oikawa realized that he was covered in the clay from Makki's sculpture. His fine clothes ruined, his glittering jewelry caked in the earthy substance. He could even taste it in his mouth now that he thought about it. Yet somehow, he couldn't bring himself to care in the slightest. 

As they slipped out the door, the sound of Matsukawa's voice on the other end of Iwaizumi's phone, Oikawa cast one look back at Hanamaki and cursed the way his gut tightened in a deluge of feelings. Feelings he had thought were left behind with his humanity long ago.

***

When Makki woke, it was with a terrible effort, like clawing up through mud. His head was pounding and his whole body felt heavy and cold. His heart pounded, fast and erratic and he felt like he was gasping for breath. Water met his lips and he drank greedily, dizziness and nausea clinging to him. His vision was blurry and his hands were shaking too much to hold the glass. He squinted in order to see who it was was helping him. 

“Fainting like a Victorian belle, how romantic Makkun.” The voice...low and comforting. It took his mind a moment to find the name that went with it.

“M-Mattsun...” His voice was rough and breathy, sounded like someone else's voice. 

“You're okay, have some more water.”

“What happened? I think...I think I need to go to the hospital.” A twinge of fear was spiraling through him. He'd never felt so bad before, especially with no discernible cause. 

“The doctor has already been here. She said you were anemic. There are a number of things that can cause it, but you'll be okay.” A sharp memory stabbed through the haze of Makki's mind and he jolted up, knocking the water from Mattsun's hands and grabbing onto his jacket. He felt wild and frantic, blinking rapidly to try to clear his eyes and the swimming in his head. 

“Mattsun! Mattsun, I have to tell you something! It's really serious!” Warm hands covered his and he felt like he was suffocating as this crazed and terrifying secret beat against him. How could he make Mattsun believe him? Would anyone believe him? Big, dark eyes looked at him with compassion.

“Mattsun...Oikawa-san...he's...”

“You passed out while he and Iwaizumi-san were here observing you work. They called me and the doctor to take care of you. You're very lucky this happened while they were here.”

“No! No, that's not what happened! Listen, you have to listen to me, please...” he felt prickling at his eyes as desperation gripped him, but Matsukawa shushed him soothingly.

“I'm listening. What is it, Makki?”

“Oikawa, he... he bit me. He bit me and I... I think he's something...” his words weren't coming together and the way Matsukawa's face was shifting in pity and it was making him breathe all the faster.

“Makki, shsh, calm down. The doctor said you may experience hallucinations, surely that's what must have happened. I have known Oikawa for many years.”

“He was so cold, Mattsun...” His voice was weaker as his memory swirled and remembered, through a hazy mist, his cold hands, his cold lips, how they had filled him with desire like nothing else. Those sharp metal claws against his skin were not even as penetrating as the gaze from those deep brown eyes. He'd never been so close to perfection and he could remember the taste of it, the icy chill of its temptation. He shivered and Mattsun pulled the blanket up around him.

“Oikawa-san has always had terrible circulation. You are likely remembering when he tried to rouse you after you passed out.”

“No, no, Mattsun...” Makki's voice was breaking, he was losing his grip on control and he needed Mattsun to believe him, to understand.

“Yes, Makki. You were, are very sick. You dreamed or possibly hallucinated this. I'm sure it seems very real to you but I promise you, it's not. It's okay.” A large hand settled gently on his head, ruffling his short hair. “And, perhaps out of concern for your well-being, perhaps because you managed to play his brittle heartstrings just right with your little episode, he's placed a sizable bid on not only your current piece but also three others. You'll be set for some time if you choose to accept.” 

It mattered so little right now. The emotions swirling around inside of Makki were confusing and impossible, like colors splayed through water, bending and twisting but never coalescing into a picture he could recognize. He kept trying to formulate the right words to say but his mind was too fuzzy and he couldn't handle Matsukawa's kindness or his nonchalance right now. 

“Get away from me, okay. I need to be alone. Just get out.” He hated the way Mattsun seemed to flinch at his words, but he didn't have the ability to be diplomatic. He stood shakily, batting at Mattsun's hands as he tried to steady him. He used the mass of the sculptures to lean against as he went to his studio room, angry and confused. 

“I'm going, I'm going. But call me if you need anything, okay.” He heard the front door shut, harder than Mattsun usually shut it. He stumbled into the studio, switching on the jarring and awful overhead lights to reveal his recent work in harsh and unforgiving light. It was bent at the center, where his back had pressed against it, the shape all wrong now. It felt withering now, all the life he had melded into it lost. He yelled, grabbing the lamp and smashing it onto the floor, weeks of work wasted. 

Oikawa's words came back to him then, _It's not about what I get, Makkun. It's about what I take from you._ He felt more shattered than the sculpture, torn between hiding away in fear of Oikawa and needing to see him again right now. Without the wet cloths the clay had begun to dry and Makki slapped a hand over it in frustration. 

That was when his eyes were draw to the deep score marks along the edge. Four of them on one side of an imprint and one on the other. Just as he remembered Oikawa's chilled fingers wrapped around his wrist, pressing him back, sharp bliss taking him apart as those icy lips were at his throat. He stared at it and sank to his knees. What was he going to do?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***

“Don't worry Oikawa-san, the boy will be fine.” Kiyoko's voice was soft and gentle, much like her magically enhanced appearance. She seemed so serene and gentle, a facade that belied everything about her. Even Oikawa didn't know what she truly looked like, what hideous features lay beyond the veil of her magical mask. 

He appreciated it. The Nosferatu clan were marked by the curse worse than any and being in their presence ran antithesis to his aesthetic needs. They were also information peddlers, which meant nothing was ever for free. The lovely and mortal appearance of Kiyoko, their Primogen, did little to diminish his concerns in that regard.

“What did he require, exactly, Kiyoko-san?” Oikawa paced around the dark gallery, Matsukawa and Iwaizumi hovering awkwardly. He was still feeling out of sorts, the warmth in his body feeling unnatural but oddly stirring. Kiyoko regarded him with her doll-like face, utterly emotionless. Perfect in it's banal beauty. The perfect way to disguise something uncontrollably hideous. 

“One of my people gave him a transfusion and he is in good health. He wasn't ghouled. It is your recklessness which causes the most concern, Oikawa-san.” Her tone never changed in pitch but her intent was clear and Oikawa stopped to glower at her. 

“No concern of yours, Kiyoko-san.” He bit back.

“Careful,” she said, here gaze never wavering from his eyes, that slight smile still in place. He knew it was foolish to insult her. She was too much of a mystery to him, despite all their years of working together as clan leaders in this city, he still knew almost nothing about her. That in and of itself was a sign of her power. 

“Oikawa-san,” Matsukawa said with hesitance, pulling his attention from the Nosferatu, “Kiyoko-san has information you will want to know.”

“What? No, there's nothing I need to know badly enough to warrant owing her anything more.” He ground his teeth in frustration, yet Matsukawa kept all of his usual control.

“Bids were placed on all of Hanamaki's pieces, bids that exceeded all of your own. I tried to trace the bidder but they are a front, a shell company of a shell company. I couldn't find their origin or why they would be placing bids like this, so I...I had Kiyoko-san look into it.” His dark eyes dropped to the floor in guilt and anger boiled in Oikawa.

“You what? How dare you do such a thing without my express consent! You knew this would come back on me! How could you betray my trust like this?” His anger and confusion were two-fold. Part of the contract with ghouls, written in the magic of the bond they shared, dictated that a ghoul could not act outside the best interest of their master. But also, he didn't understand why. Why would this small thing matter enough for him to risk his master's ire?

“He was right to come to me, Oikawa-san. And you will want to know what I have found. In many ways it affects us all.”

“What will it cost me?”

“A favor.” 

Despite the mild words, this was perhaps the greatest price of all. A favor between friends is nothing, forgotten as easy as the face of a stranger. Between those who lived for hundreds of years though, who's power stretched well beyond the bounds of the mortal world, it was a much greater thing. A favor to the Nosferatu was an even heavier burden. They were masters at using leverage to the best advantage. A favor from another clan Primogen was the highest price that could be demanded.

“And if I decline?” 

“Then we will have to address the situation ourselves. And I can't promise you will appreciate the outcome. How important is this boy to you? If the answer is not at all, then by all means, decline.” She quirked a well defined eyebrow at him along with a tilt to her lips that was not usually so forward. She was daring him to say no. 

The problem was, as defiant as he felt and as irrational as it all seemed, he did feel a vested interest in Hanamaki. He told himself it was simply because no one in so long had had such power over him. That was a draw beyond measure, no doubt. But there was something else. At best, her statement meant that they would kill him. Quietly, hopefully as painlessly as possible, but still, if Makki was to die it felt wrong to leave it in another's hands. In the hands of hideous monsters.

At worst, they would make him one of them. His beautiful features would be mangled in the turning. If they truly got what they wanted, his ability to create would be destroyed forever. It was the way of the Nosferatu. Their potential, their beauty was ripped from them in the turning and therefore they hungered to tear it from others. Their clan had often snatched a potential from the gaze of the Toreadors, a purposeful spurning of their appreciation. The subtle threat within Kiyoko's words was clear. 

“Fine. A favor, then. Tell me what you know.” He grated out the answer and she nodded sagely, no hint of celebration in her features. 

“The man who has bid upon the works of the object of your interest is named Kita Shinsuke. If you don't recognize that name, then you haven't been paying close enough attention to the Sabbat threat in this city.” 

Iwaizumi gasped and all of the warmth that had remained in Oikawa's blood from his feast drained away to ice. They all knew that name well. The rival faction of vampires who wished to enslave humanity and instill absolute supremacy of vampire kind, the Sabbat, had been particularly active in their city for a number of years. They had to be ever vigilant of their encroaching power. The Sabbat had, however remained secretive about their hierarchy. No doubt there was a powerful Ductus, or leader of their faction here, however who it was was a question not even the Nosferatu had fettered out. 

Kita Shinsuke was one of the suspects. He was an old and powerful member of the clan Tzimisce, the flesh-crafters. It made perfect sense now that he truly considered it. They were hyper intelligent artists of the body, seeing their horrific manipulations of skin and bone as divine beauty. Kita was a high ranking member, if not the Ductus himself. It would make sense for him to search for a successor, someone who already knew the feel of creating a work of art from a malleable medium. Especially when that person...

“I mean no disrespect, Oikawa-san, but to so brazenly showcase that Hanamaki-san's art activates your weakness and enraptures you...I am not surprised the Sabbat have chosen to target him. Carelessness is what has led to this. I'm sorry you are in this position.” He almost believed her cool words, but then she stepped close, angling her sweet face up to peer at him with dark eyes.

“I'll take care of it. You've no need to get further involved.”

“Good. I would hate for this to be any more difficult on you or Matsukawa-san.” Oikawa narrowed his eyes down at her and she smiled and tilted her head.

“What does Matsukawa have to do with this? How was he able to contact you directly anyway?” He could hear Matsukawa fidgeting behind him, but he didn't dare take his eyes off of the Nosferatu. Her smile widened just a hair.

“I like your ghoul. He appreciates my more...genuine qualities.” And then, her smile widened further, and further, too wide, stretching across her face nearly to her ears as her eyes shifted as well, the irises and pupils thinning and reddening unnaturally. A spindle of horror pierced him as he watched Kiyoko reveal her true face for just a fraction of a second, but it was enough. She truly was a monster. 

As she slipped away, his eyes followed her and watched as she ran a hand along Matsukawa's shoulder as she passed. His face was flushed and he shivered under her touch but not from fear or disgust. Iwaizumi just gaped at the ghoul as Kiyoko gracefully left, the door closing softly behind her.

“I-I can explain...” Matsukawa started, but Oikawa had crossed to him and placed a hand on his throat in a single one of the ghoul's heartbeats.

“Did she bite you Matsukawa? Did the two of you ever exchange blood in any way? Are you even fully my ghoul anymore?” Mattsun clutched at him, gasping, his toes struggling to find purchase on the floor as Oikawa lifted him.

“No! Yes! I..we...” Oikawa set him back down so that he could speak and he wheezed and coughed. “Please, no, Oikawa-san, you are the only master I serve. Kiyoko-san and I are merely...l-lovers.” He wouldn't meet Oikawa's eyes, but the truth of his words was clear. 

“Tooru...” Iwaizumi called calmly, hesitance in his voice. Oikawa paid him no mind. He grabbed Matsukawa's chin and lifted his gaze, pulling him to his knees before him.

“If you want to fuck monsters, Mattsun, that's fine. But your blood is mine. As is your loyalty. If I ever question either of those things again, I will kill you to ensure them. Do you understand?” Matsukawa looked distraught, as if he would tear his own heart from his chest, and it was the last bit of truth to secure that he still belonged to Oikawa.

“I'm sorry. Please. Please forgive me, master. I only asked for her help because I thought it would aid you...” His pleading was everything Oikawa needed in that moment. He knelt to the floor, holding Mattsun's face in his hands, brushing his freezing fingers over his cheeks and brow. This was a setback. He had plans for Matsukawa, but he needed to know that his loyalty was unquestionable, would remain that way even if the bond of the ghoul was broken. This matter would need to be addressed, but not right now. Right now, they needed each other. 

Oikawa rolled his sleeve back and sank his teeth into his own wrist. Matsukawa's gaze sharpened onto the blood that welled at the wound and he offered his arm to the ghoul. Matsukawa took it, placing his mouth greedily to the puncture marks and sucking hard. It would secure their bond further and remind Mattsun what Oikawa could give him. Oikawa met Iwaizumi's gaze, a myriad of communication passing between them in the silence.

“I forgive you, Matsukawa. Keep nothing from me again. You will need to help me handle this situation. Our options are limited now. Our time even more so. Iwaizumi, please go and retrieve Hanamaki and bring him here?” Iwaizumi nodded, his gaze flickering uncomfortably to Mattsun. Then he turned and left. 

And Oikawa had a decision to make. One that would impact them all for the rest of their unnatural lives.

***

Hanamaki woke on the bus, his head only slightly clearer. Against his better judgment, he switched on his phone, a waterfall of texts from Matsukawa pouring through in a wave of vibration. He flipped through them, feeling an increasing level of panic from his usually overly relaxed friend. He tapped out a quick reply saying that he was fine. He just needed to get away for a bit. Then he switched his phone back off. 

He had spent the first two hours of the bus ride reading about vampires, but as expected, all the information was based on fiction. It felt so stupid. When his battery dipped down to fifteen percent, he switched it off. When the bus crossed over one of the largest rivers, he got off at the next stop. It was only about five hours from the city but it would have to do. 

He checked in to a motel, paid for three nights in cash, and collapsed on the rumpled bed. This would hopefully give him the chance to sleep. He at least felt safer here than he had in his own flat. He flipped on the light next to the dingy bed to chase away the shadows. It had to be nearing dawn. 

He turned his phone back on to see fourteen missed calls from Matsukawa. One message was left a mere ten minutes ago. He sighed, rubbing his eyes, before hitting the call button. It barely rang before Mattsun picked it up. 

“Makki! Where the hell are you? You're not well enough to be traveling!” His usual calm voice was thin and frantic, too loud and fast to even sound like him. Makki hated it. 

“I'm fine! I told you! Jesus, you're not my fucking mom. I'm at a motel and I'm going to stay here for a few days to clear my head. Stop calling me.” 

“Makki, listen to me,” he took on that serious voice that Makki had only heard him use a couple times before. Usually it snapped him to attention but this time it made his brow crinkle in annoyance. “I have to tell you some things. I'm sorry about how I acted before. But listen, I believe you. About Oikawa-san. But it's not just him.” 

Makki blinked into the dimly lit room, his eyes wandering to the small window over the little desk. A barren parking lot lit only by the cold light of a single street lamp lay beyond. Some small white animal darted just beyond his ability to discern. A fox perhaps?

“Makki, there are really bad people out there who may be after you. You need to come back. I know it may be hard to believe, but Oikawa-san can protect you from them.”

“What? What the fuck, man? Do you really expect me to believe any of that? If this is how you intend to trick me into coming back...” his words fell away as the little white fox in the parking lot walked closer, sitting daintily on the concrete and staring at him. Right at him. It gave him a chill and he shut the blinds.

“It's not a trick, Makki. I...I know about Oikawa. I lied to you before because I was afraid that if you knew the truth, you would do this. You would put yourself in even more danger. This isn't something you can just run away from.” Anger flared brightly in Makki's chest at those words, and he felt his own volume rise.

“That's rich, coming from you! You're always running! How many times have I tried to reach out and ask you to open that door, huh? And you just...fuck you!” 

Mattsun began to respond, but something drew Makki's attention toward the door. Something dark dripped from the upper edge and he approached it, not hearing the words from the phone at his ear. He felt a squish under his shoes and looked down, something wet seeping in the rug beneath his feet. Something dark. As he stepped back, it felt almost sticky and a sharp smell of iron filled his nose. Fear coiled heavy in his gut as he backed away, watching more dark liquid drip down from the door frame. 

“Makki? Makki, are you still there?”

“Mattsun. I think I'm in trouble.” He set the phone facedown behind him on the bedside table, leaving the line connected. Maybe they could track it and find out what had happened to him. As the dark, reddish liquid began to merge and congeal before him, lengthening into a shape that looked more and more like a man every second, Makki knew that he was going to die. Nothing so wildly horrific had ever happened to him, not even the brief and enticing foray with Oikawa. Nothing in his human life prepared him for the man who stepped forth from that pillar of blood like a moth from a cocoon. 

“Hanamaki-san. It's good t'finally meet you.” A slender, pale hand extended down toward him, which was how he realized he had sunk to the floor, wedging himself in the corner between the bed and the bedside table. His heart pounded furiously as he followed the line of the arm in the white jacket up to a calm and beautiful face, framed by silver hair which ended in darkened tips. Big brown eyes captured him in their depths, but the man's face, while lovely, seemed wrong in some way. Too smooth, too perfect, too lacking in the lines and faults that made someone human. Makki felt a whine leave his chest, a hot tear fell down his face. He was going to die.

“Oh dear, no need for that. I won't be hurtin you.” The man smiled, his lips tight, but despite his expression giving no comfort, Makki felt the strangling fear fade. It was a bit like how a good painkiller dulled a terrible ache. He still felt afraid, still saw the reality of the situation, but his head cleared and his throat unclenched. He reached out and took the offered hand. It was warm and human feeling as he let it pull him up, finding his legs far steadier than they should have been. 

“Who are you? What do you want?” He asked. Even his voice was measured. It didn't seem right. He should have been afraid, terrified, but he took in the well dressed man before him with a steady gaze. He wore a dark vest and gray bowtie beneath a well-fitted labcoat, like an old-timey doctor. He was thin, thinner than Makki even, an unimposing figure by all rational deduction, but yet, a malicious and powerful aura rolled off of him.

“Kita Shinsuke. I'm quite the fan of yer work.” His accent was soft, Southern perhaps, but it also sounded wrong somehow. The imitation of human speech, done too perfectly. Makki felt it, felt that he should be choking on fear, and yet, his heart remained calm. A little smile played upon Kita's lips. Makki waited. 

“So polite, I have to admit, I didn't expect that. Yer work speaks of passion, untamed, impatient. Everythin I usually despise, and yet... Apologies, let me answer yer question. I'm here to offer you a priceless gift.” 

“I don't want anything!” He spoke fast, and he watched displeasure tick across Kita's face. It hadn't quite been an interruption, but it flirted with it. 

“Come now, let's be gentlemen. After all, you and I are both artists. Both sculptors who take a mundane thing and by the grace of our hands, mold it into somethin vibrant. Surely, that counts for somethin.” Kita gestured with inhuman grace, his hand turned up. “I just want to teach you how to use a new medium, darlin.” 

Kita's words dripped like honey from his lips, but there was such insidious intent that Makki found his head shaking. He watched Kita's gaze flick toward the window and the frightening man sighed. 

“Understand one thing, Hanamaki-san. I would very much like you to accept this gift graciously. We can craft an incredible partnership. You can fill all the gaps that my substantial power cannot. But know this. The choice isn't really yers to make. I would take you now, but I prefer to take my time and the dawn approaches.”

Kita stepped forward, crowding him against bedside table. His nostrils flared and Makki saw his raised hand change, the tips of his fingers elongate and sharpen, like bone. He hovered over Makki's face but didn't touch him, the weight of his threat and the horror of his transformation enough pressure to get his point across. Kita's face shifted also, like something moved beneath his smooth skin. 

“When I come for you again, it will be yer decision if the takin will be pleasurable or violent. I will enjoy it regardless.” Kita retreated from him, leaving through the door without a backward glance. But it was like his presence stuck to Makki, like a cloying scent, both sickening and alluring. He was afraid. He was so very calm. 

There was a tug from deep within him. A pull so strong that it felt anchored to his spine and he gasped at its strength. Was this more of Kita's power? He barely had the will to grab his phone, the screen now dark, and his backpack before he was pulled out the door by a force that was beyond rationale. His feet seemed to move of their own accord and finally he stopped fighting them. He drifted with this strange current, back to the bus station and back toward home. 

As he watched the sun rise through the smudged window, he wondered with all seriousness, if it would be the last he ever saw.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***

When Oikawa woke, he sensed that his summons from the night before had been successful. He didn't like using that particular ability. It felt so very...desperate, calling someone to you with kindred magic, but the situation was a desperate one. He could sense that Matsukawa was also still in the house, which was for the best. 

He donned a light yukata, deep teal with black flowers adorning it, and tied it loosely around his waist. He felt such relief, knowing that Hanamaki was here in his haven. He had been with Matsukawa when he'd received the call, had overheard Kita's voice himself and shivered in fear from helplessness. Thank all the old gods they had been so close to dawn. 

He padded across the tatami mats out to the open living room, the wall of windows showing off the the last purple embers of twilight. He was lucky to see it at all, given his age. Matsukawa stopped his pacing and approached him. He hadn't slept, but he still looked vibrant, no doubt from Oikawa's blood he'd received the night before. He wouldn't need to sleep for several days. Still his brow was creased in worry. 

“He arrived late morning, on the edge of exhaustion. He was confused and afraid. I gave him something to help him sleep and he's been out ever since. Shall I wake him?” 

“What did you give him?” Oikawa asked, a sharp edge to voice. He still hadn't totally forgiven Matsukawa, but he knew at this point he was just being petty. Mattsun swallowed hard, his gaze dipping to the floor. 

“Just Benedryl. Nothing that would affect you if...” 

“Wake him, then.” Oikawa crossed the room to a luxurious chair, sleek and black and low to the floor. Floor pillows sat around a low, square table and Matsukawa had laid out a futon for Makki, who currently lay tangled in a thin blanket. Matsukawa knelt beside his sleeping form and touched his shoulder, causing the pink-haired artist to stir and jolt upward. Oikawa leaned on his elbow, chin resting in his palm as he waited. 

“Makki, you're okay. You're here in Oikawa-san's home. You're safe.” Oikawa saw Makki's face tighten at Mattsun's words as he leveled him with a dark look.

“Am I?” 

“Safer than you were,” Oikawa finally cut in, drawing Makki's gaze. He paled just a bit, but there was a ferocious look on his face that didn't slide away. It was...refreshing. 

“I don't even understand why I'm here,” Makki mumbled as he disentangled himself and stood. Oikawa followed suit, rising with him. He flicked a hand toward Matsukawa to dismiss him. 

“I'm sorry, but I had to use magic to get you to return. It's worn off now and you may leave at any time. But Kita-san will be looking for you. I'd like to explain to you exactly why that is of concern to you.” Oikawa's gaze darted to Matsukawa. He hadn't take a single step yet. “Matsukawa, you are dismissed.” 

“Please let me stay, Oikawa-san. Makki is concerned about you and he trusts me.” Oikawa watched Makki turn sharply toward Matsukawa, his eyes narrowing and teeth clenching. 

“He clearly doesn't,” he replied flippantly and a worried expression crossed Matsukawa's face as his eyes darted to Makki's. 

“Makki, do you want me to stay?”

“Why? Are you going to protect me if he tries to bite me again? No? Then whatever.” Makki's words were harsh and they lashed at Matsukawa with great affect. 

“Fine then!” Mattsun rumbled, throwing out his hands and turning from them to march angrily out the door. He wouldn't go far. Might even reach his car, but he wouldn't turn it on. He wanted to see them, to make sure he was available. Oikawa wanted to believe it was just for his sake, but given Matsukawa's recent outbursts, it felt more like he was interested in protecting Makki. A flicker of jealousy ignited, but now was not the time. He stamped it out. 

Makki was guarded, his arms crossed in front of his chest, turned slightly away, but there was a dusting of pink along his cheekbones. Oikawa let his gaze slip and watched the colors bloom along Hanamaki, a vibrant whorl of color painting him as nervous, afraid, distrustful, but also a hint of desire. He shifted nervously from foot to foot as Oikawa regarded him, unaware he was being critiqued like a fine painting. Oikawa usually enjoyed the upper hand, but somehow, it just made him feel guilty.

“I'm sorry about what happened at your studio. I...had a lapse in control. It's unlike me. It put you in danger. That was not my intention and you have my humblest apologies.”

“You're really a vampire then?” Makki asked, his voice low and quiet, suspicion heavy in his eyes. 

“Yes. As is my companion, Iwaizumi. As was the man you met last night, Kita-san. Some of us are more dangerous than others.” 

“Well so far, only one of you has mind-controlled me and fed on me so...” The snarky remark stung and Oikawa shrugged in surrender.

“True. I hope you'll let me explain. There's a lot at stake here, for us both.” 

“Hah.” Makki gave a mirthless laugh and put a hand over his face. When Oikawa cocked his head, Makki snickered wryly. “You said 'at stake.' Get it?”

“Covering your fear with humor?”

“Yeah. One hundred percent. Not sure what else to do with it all. So you wanted to explain, so explain. Explain to me how the vampire who tried to eat me is somehow better than the other one who threatened to...you know, I don't even really know what he was threatening to do to me, to be honest.” Oikawa took a step forward at his crumbling words that began to show his fear through the cracks in that punk facade. Makki recoiled, taking a large step back, so Oikawa stopped, hands raised slightly. 

“I'll try to make this as simple as possible. A war is waging just outside of human perception. There are two vampire factions. One that wishes to remain hidden and allow humans to live as they always have. That is the faction I am part of. The other wishes to enslave humans and treat them as cattle, sees them as little more than a food source. That is the faction Kita-san is not just a part of, but an elite within. You have drawn the attention of both, and I'm afraid that it's because of me.”

“Because of you? Why?” 

“Your...way of creating art. It mesmerizes me, quite literally. Leaves me vulnerable. I am a powerful player in our faction. Which makes you a powerful weapon against me. And Kita is part of the clan Tzimisce. They are known to mold bodies like you mold clay. It's no wonder he has targeted you so aggressively. He intends to make you like he is. Two powerful Tzimisce...you could craft an army of twisted minions to lay siege to this city. Of course he wants you. Of course.” 

Oikawa realized he was talking as much to himself as to Makki. It was so much bigger than just Makki's power over him. With a fresh Tzimisce of such skill they could quickly build a force of armored vampires and bone minions. It was a brilliant move on Kita's part, and one that had to be stopped at all costs, lest the Camarilla, the faction Oikawa helped to lead as a Primogen, would fall in this city. That meant that Makki was a threat, and the moment the others realized that...

“Okay. That's...a lot to digest, but fine. That's what Kita-san wants with me. To make me another vampire who can like, create...creatures. Wild. What do _you_ want with me, Oikawa-san? Are you going to kill me?” His piercing eyes were challenging, but he didn't cower. Oikawa took a step toward him, but he didn't back down. 

“I should. It would be the safest way to ensure our enemies don't get their hands on you. But,” he took another step closer and the ferocity in Makki's gaze wavered as his eyes flickered over Oikawa's face and frame. “That's never been what I wanted from you. I merely wished to watch you work. But now, your options are limited. So tell me, Makki-chan, what is it that you want? Knowing what you now know.” 

Much to his surprise, Makki took a step forward, closing the gap between them. It had been a long time since he had seen a human learn about the kindred world. He had expected fear, denial, anger, anything but the fiery determination that seemed to well within him. Makki's scent filled his nose, a titillating reminder of the last time they had been so close, and Oikawa's eyes lidded as hunger curled inside of him.

“Tell me something,” Makki said quietly, his eyes never leaving Oikawa's, “why did you use your magic on me, back at the studio? You have to know how...” Makki's eyes travel over his face and down the line of his loosely tied yukata. It feels almost like worship and it affects him in a way he is not prepared for. “Did you really think I would deny you anything?”

“You don't understand. You remember what it felt like? When I touched you? What I look like is of little consequence when I feel like a corpse left in the snow. You would have been horrified. You would have fought me and you would have run.”

“You don't know that,” Makki whispered, leaning close enough that his hot breath feathered across Oikawa's lips. He sucked in a breath when Makki's fingertips brushed against his neck, feverish, but they didn't jerk away from his icy skin. In fact, they pressed into him and Makki's pupils widened as his gaze rested on Oikawa's mouth. “What did I taste like, Oikawa-san?”

For the first time in many years, it was Oikawa who felt seduced, his exposed hands pulled toward Makki by pure magnetism. He could surely feel the cold through his thin tank top as Oikawa gripped his waist, but he didn't shy away. In fact, Oikawa could hear his heart race, a siren's call to an apex predator in any circumstance. He thought about asking if Makki meant his blood, or his kiss. He realized it didn't matter. 

“Like fire.” Their mouths crashed together, no hesitancy from the artist, who should have recoiled. His hands sought out Oikawa's flesh, palm hot against his nape, his other seeking beneath the seam of his clothes, burning fingers against his chest. Makki's tongue dipped into his mouth, teasing and exploring, like he wanted to devour the old vampire. Oikawa's blood stirred, blood that was also Hanamaki's, and again he felt that bright desire, not the need to feed, but the need satiate and possess. He felt his cock grow hard, forgetting for a moment that he was cursed with winter, drowning in the heat that was Hanamaki's life force. 

As their lips separated, Oikawa pulled him harshly against his chest, drawn to his tender throat where he left open-mouthed kisses with lingering intensity. Makki gasped and shivered against him, but Oikawa could feel the artist's growing arousal as well.

“Are you going to bite me again?” Makki asked breathlessly, his back arching ever so slightly to press himself more firmly into Oikawa's grip. It made the vampire growl.

“Do you want me to?” he whispered against that soft skin, begging to part beneath his fangs. He didn't need it, but the beast was howling within him now. 

“I want you to fuck me.” His words were clear, without hesitation and they did something to Oikawa, something as powerful as magic. He lifted Makki by his thighs with ease, and reveled in the way they tightened around his waist. He carried him back to his lavish bedroom, the artist weighing nothing in his supernatural grasp as they kissed hungrily. It made sense in an odd way. The closer mortals brushed to death the more they sought to feel alive, and usually that manifested in a need for sex. He'd just never felt it like this, or if he had, it was long forgotten. 

He spilled Makki onto the low bed, falling atop him and letting his hands roam his thin but firm body. He tore the ratty tank top he wore open, marveling at the mosaic of tattoos that covered his skin. Makki was panting, his gaze dark as he tugged at the ties on Oikawa's yukata, pulling it open and dragging his fingers roughly over Oikawa's sides and chest.

“I-I'm cold everywhere, Makki-chan. You may not like...” he didn't want to remember, but he wanted so badly for Makki to enjoy everything he did to him. He needed to please him, to make him understand how precious his gift was and how beautiful he was. 

Yet those burning hands clutched at him, yanking the fabric from his shoulders and grabbing at his back and his ass, conveying nothing but abject desire. He made quick work of Makki's baggy pants, laying him bare before him and running his hands up his thighs. Goosebumps pricked along the artists skin, but still his cock lay red and hard against his stomach. He hadn't looked at a body and wanted it in this animal way in so long. He felt drunk on the base humanity of it all. 

“Do you have...you know, condoms and stuff, here?” Makki asked between heavy breaths. Oh. He hadn't thought of that. Oikawa huffed a laugh.

“Ah, I haven't slept with anyone in over a century. How things have changed. I...I'm sorry.” Bitter disappointment was creeping up his spine but Makki just laughed and looked at him in an endearing way. Like he wasn't an untouchable creature, a monster. Like he was just a man. 

“My bag, in the living room. I've got everything, don't worry.” He tried to rise, but Oikawa pushed him back down, sliding off the bed. He padded naked back to the living room, feeling young again, anticipation coursing through him. He spied the yellow backpack, but before he could go to it, a figure stepped into the living room. 

It was Matsukawa, his face pale and eyes bloodshot, however he didn't appear injured. Oikawa crossed to him with a questioning look. 

“Oikawa-san, please,” he whispered in his low and soothing voice, “please don't kill him. I know that is the best option. I feel the drive to do it myself, to protect you. But he is good. He is...he is my friend. Please.” 

Oikawa took Mattsun's face in his hands, feeling him flinch from the cold. Even after so long, he still flinched. Makki had not. 

“You know it has always been my plan to turn you, Matsukawa. There were things that had to be wrapped up, but you must know that gift was always to be yours.” Mattsun nodded gravely. His human heart beat slow and steady, enriched by Oikawa's blood. He had been a faithful servant, for the most part. He deserved it. 

“The only other thing I can do to protect myself and this city from the threat that Kita poses, is to give that well earned gift to Makki instead of you. Are you willing to make that sacrifice? Knowing it could be your only chance? Knowing that only one of you may get to live forever? Do you love him that much?” Matsukawa's eyes were dark steel, reflecting Oikawa's perfect features. He wanted to read Mattsun's aura, to know what he was feeling, but he held back. 

“If he wishes it, then yes.” The answer surprised him. Not because Mattsun was a selfish man, he was anything but. However, it was the most greatly coveted gift any ghoul could want. The fact that he was willing to give it up for a man he had only known for a couple of years was...

“You're sure?” Matsukawa nodded slow and decisively. There was no mistake. He had likely made the decision before the question was even asked. 

“Oikawa-san! Did you find it? Oh-” Makki came around the corner with Oikawa's yukata pulled around him. His face flushed bright when he saw the two of them, his eyes widening in embarrassment. He backpedaled a step, peeking around the corner as his eyes fell to the floor.

“It's all right, Hanamaki-san. I'm afraid we must discuss this before we proceed, however.” He beckoned and Makki stepped back out, pulling the yukata even tighter. He didn't look at either of them.

“Mattsun...please don't be mad. I'm sorry, I-” Matsukawa raised his hand, his gaze soft as it fell on the artist. 

“Makki, Oikawa and I are not lovers. You've done nothing to betray me. I'm sorry to have interrupted. I was just...” Mattsun trailed off, chewing at his bottom lip. Oikawa turned, his arms crossing in front of him, to look fully at Makki.

“He was worried for you. Worried that I would kill you. In truth, Makki-chan, you could not have a truer friend than my Matsukawa. He has, in fact, sacrificed his own chance for immortality, something he has desired greatly for many years, in order to save your life.” They both looked at him in shock. He knew Mattsun would not have thought he'd make his sacrifice known to Makki. But there was a reason. 

“You don't strike me as a man who would wish to live forever, Hanamaki. In truth, I don't generally consider this particular gift a choice of the recipient, but it is part of Matsukawa's demands. The truth is, we cannot let you become Kita's new childe, a new vampire of his blood. There is no sure way to protect you from that beyond killing you or...making you one of mine. I'm sorry you have to be left with this choice. But at the end of this night, you will no longer be human. It is your choice what that means.” 

Makki's gaze was fixed on Mattsun, a long silence settling between them. Makki's head shook slightly and Mattsun scowled at him, nodding his head forward once. Their silent conversation spoke volumes to Oikawa. 

“Mattsun, you can't. I can't take something like this from you.”

“I'm giving it to you. In part because I don't want you to die. But also because, even in this short time, I can see how you have changed my master.” Oikawa whipped his head up to look at his ghoul in shock, but Mattsun didn't spare him a glance. “You make him more human. He is better for your company. I could not be so selfish as to deny him that.”

Makki leaned back against the wall, hand raising over his eyes. Then he propelled himself forward with a flourish of the yukata, walking briskly back to the bedroom. They stood in frozen silence, until Oikawa gripped Matsukawa's arm and squeezed, a gesture of affection he rarely offered anyone. 

“I'll make sure you know his answer before dawn. Regardless of the outcome, you and I will have much to discuss, my faithful servant.” They shared a look and Oikawa leaned up to brush his lips across Matsukawa's cheek. The ghoul gasped. In all the years that he fed from Oikawa's vein, no gesture had ever been as intimate as that. He nodded and left the house once again. 

Oikawa picked up Makki's backpack and walked back to the bedroom. Makki stood with his palms and forehead pressed against the window, looking into the darkness beyond. A window that would tint to black at the first sign of dawn. He had let the yukata slip to the floor, revealing his whole frame, and Oikawa couldn't help but think how incredible he looked, all life and color and beauty painted against the eternal darkness that lay ahead of him. He hated it. 

“You know, it's funny. I thought this morning on the bus that it might be the last time I saw the sunrise. I guess I was right about that...” Oikawa crossed to him, running his fingers lightly over Makki's warm skin. He would never tire of the way the artist leaned into it instead of away. 

“I'm sorry I cannot grant you more time. Would that I could. Know that whatever you choose, there will be no pain. Only bliss. I will make sure of that.” He let his lips trail lazily up the back of Makki's neck, loving the way his reflection showed his eyes closing. Oikawa's thumb trailed down his spine, curving to rest in the dimple of his lower back. 

“Would I truly live forever? Is there no escape?”

“We can still die. The sun will kill us, and fire. There are other, more visceral ways. We can't survive losing our heads. True death is always a specter lurking over our shoulders.” Hanamaki turned to face him then, his eyes clear and fathomless.

“Then show me what it's like to be mortal for one more night. Burn it into my mind so I never forget what my last night as a human was. And then take it from me. When you tear away my life, don't make it gentle. I want it to hurt. I want to know that I'm dying, before I'm reborn.” 

It was in that moment that he understood why Matsukawa had been willing to give up the thing he wanted most. It was everything he had said but it was also because the Toreador bloodline was that of artists, of muses, of beauty that shined beyond the realm of humanity but also exalted in all of its boundless facets. This last request, it was everything that the progenitor of their clan would have said before his own embrace. 

He pressed Makki against the glass, pinning his wrists and kissing his neck. He tasted his skin and nicked him with his fangs, sending jolts of magical pleasure through him. When he struggled, Oikawa held him tighter, let him feel how helpless he was in his grasp. It was what he wanted. 

“I will bite you so many times tonight. And each time you will think it will be the last, but you will never know which penetration will be the one to take your life.” He whispered the words harshly into Makki's ear and the artist moaned in response, his cock already fully hard once again and leaking between them. When he had had his fill of teasing him against the window, little nips and icy caresses leaving him shaking, Oikawa grabbed his waist and flung him to the bed. 

He held him down as he licked and sucked at the his pierced nipples, back arching as his voice rose in cries of pleasure. He took the artist's cock in his mouth, Makki's body writhing from the cold and the wet, until Oikawa's fangs ached too much for it to be safe. He bit deep into his thigh, but fought the urge to drink, biting down until the artist's body contracted in orgasm, cum spurting over his chest. He could almost feel it himself, watched the colors of his aura spark into deep red bursts, as full of life as the blood in his veins. Hanamaki splashed in all the colors of ecstasy was art in and of itself.

He let him rest a moment while he pulled the lubricant from the bag and coated his fingers. He tilted Makki's chin up so that his eyes opened again to gaze upon Oikawa. Like a lover. Like a killer.

“By morning, you'll be physically dead, so the condoms really aren't necessary. Unless you insist...”

“No, no, it's fine. I...want to feel you.” What hardness Oikawa had lost in his search was regained with those words. No one had wanted him like this, with full knowledge of what he was, in so very long. Not since he and Iwaizumi were young vampires, still fresh from their turning. He slid two fingers into Makki, making him hiss and clench against them, knowing it would burn. But that was humanity, pain and sacrifice and pleasure, all bleeding into the same short time that their hearts beat.

He held Makki's throat with his other hand as he worked him open, not hard enough to deny him air, but enough to feel the blood move through him, the breath, to let him know that it would take nothing to extinguish his life. It didn't take long before his pretty cock was hard again, still wet from his earlier release. Each time he added a finger he would squeeze his neck just a little tighter for a moment and Makki would whine beautifully, his eyes rolling back from the sensation. 

He released Makki's throat, pressing one of his legs up as he pushed his fingers deep into him, purposefully barely brushing his prostate and making him whimper. He leaned over him, kissing along his collar bone, to murmur against his throat.

“Will it be this time, do you think?” Then he sunk his fangs into Makki's shoulder, making his body nearly convulse, but he pulled back before it tipped him over the edge again. 

“Oikawa, please!” Makki begged, his voice already ragged. Oikawa pulled his fingers out of him, releasing his leg as he looked him over. Pleasure-flushed and goosefleshed, he was perfect in the silvery light of the moon, the warm hue of his skin almost washed away. He was still so vibrant compared to Oikawa's pale tone. He grabbed Makki's hips and flipped him, forcing a grunt from him as he landed on his stomach. He ran his hands roughly up the back of his thighs and let his teeth sink into the meat of his ass. The artist nearly wailed in pleasure, bucking against him, but again he released quickly, sealing the wounds again with the magic of his saliva. 

The move had done its work, had Makki raising his hips to present lewdly. He ran his fingers lightly over Makki's ass, making him gasp and shiver as his entrance winked in need.

“Such a pretty sight, Makki-chan. So warm and ready to take me. Are you ready to warm me up, little muse?” Makki's hand gripped at the sheets, hands that held the power to paralyze Oikawa, to take his immortal life if they wished. He ran a finger up Makki's spine and down his shoulder, to grip one wrist and hold it against the bed as he nuzzled into his shoulder blade.

“Fuck, yes, please. I need you,” Makki mumbled into the pillow, but Oikawa could hear him just fine and he smirked. He lined himself up, pressing his cockhead against Makki's hole and relishing how he whined and wiggled his hips. He then held down Makki's other wrist as he slowly sank into him, tight heat enveloping him and crushing him in pleasure. He couldn't stop his own moan from spilling forth as he finally claimed Makki's body in this, the most human of ways. 

He rolled his hips as he leaned back, moving his hands to press Makki's shoulder's down instead of his wrists and a low groan left the artist as he moved with him. He moved slow like this a few more times, drowning in the hot drag of Makki's insides against him. When his hands had worked their way down to Makki's hips, he snapped into him hard, their skin slapping together, and a guttural cry leaving his new lover.

“So good for me, Makki-chan,” another hard thrust pulled more sweet sounds from the artist. “You take my cock as well as you take my fangs, sweet thing.” It was an effort to breathe, he hadn't breathed in so long, but it made the experience feel so much more real. He loved the feel of his exhale pouring over Makki's decorated skin, the way it worked with the rhythm of his hips. With each shattering thrust he felt himself climb, drawing closer to that pinnacle that he hadn't reached in a lifetime. 

He pressed Makki's lower back down spread his legs wider, adjusting his angle and allowing the friction of the bed to work in his favor. It was more difficult for him to maneuver, but for Makki...

“Ah! Yes! Oh god, right there, don't stop!” He pounded into him hard, his fingers bruising as they held the artist down. 

“First you will feel alive,” he gasped into Makki's ear. He was drawing close to climax as well and felt relief as Makki's body finally clenched around him, almost painfully tight. Makki made a strangled noise as he came and Oikawa felt all of it, knowing what would come next. He was so close, teetering on the precipice. 

“And now you feel as I tear it from you.” He latched onto Makki's neck viciously, pulling hard at the vein as sweet blood filled his mouth. The sensation pushed him the rest of the way and he growled deep as orgasm claimed him as well. Makki's body spasmed anew, this time in pain, and he cried out in terror. Biting him so soon after climax meant the magic was dulled that usually filled the victim with ecstasy. It meant that he could feel the pain as much as the pleasure, could feel the life leaving him and struggle against it, and indeed, his limbs flailed and he gasped for breath. It was terrible and beautiful, a whirlwind of sensation, life and death, ice and flame. It was as close to a religious experience as Oikawa had ever known, including his own embrace. 

And as the last of Hanamaki's blood passed his lips, those beautiful limbs gone limp and cold in the grip of death, he pulled back, separating them. He turned Makki over and drew him close, craning his neck to drag a fang across his own shoulder and open a wound there. He then placed Makki's mouth to it and smiled when he felt the artist swallow.

“Now, feel the glory of the embrace.”

***

Consciousness slipped back in, at first nothing more than the taste of sweet delirium that bled into a more rational world. The skin his teeth were buried deep within was icy cold, but what passed his lips was like warm honey. It was the most incredible taste he had ever experienced, so good it made him moan, and he felt cold fingers grip against his back and nape. 

His mouth felt different, the sensation of new and sensitive fangs was almost sexual in nature as he felt the skin and muscle around them. He felt cold at first, so terribly cold, but the more he drank the warmer he became. He could lose himself in the feeling forever. 

Strong fingers at his jaws pushed at him, and he blinked, pulling his long fangs free from the wound with a shudder. His head swam strangely, but he didn't feel bad. He felt good. So good. His senses felt heightened and the cool skin beneath his fingertips felt like ice over a burn, soothing. Without a thought he dragged his tongue along the torn skin and felt it close, a low rumbling laugh falling over him from the mouth that was close to his ear.

“Well, look at you. Taking to it like a natural.” He looked up then, finally meeting Oikawa's eyes, the warm brown such a contrast to his cold skin. His face was so beautiful, it was almost painful to look at and as he stared, colors seemed to swirl around Oikawa's face, pale blues and purples and darker reds. It was incredible. He didn't understand what it all meant, but Oikawa smiled.

“There are colors...” he whispered, and Oikawa gave him a soft, true smile that was striking in his usually sharp features. Cold fingertips danced over his jawline and his vision cleared once again.

“I'll teach you all of it, Makki-chan. There is so much to learn, worlds within worlds to show you. And you can even experience it all without my terrible curse sending winter through your veins...” He laughed bitterly and looked away as his hands fell away, but Makki grabbed them, drawing him back in. 

“Don't worry. I'll keep you warm, Oikawa-san. After all, we've got the rest of forever to figure it out, yeah? And I gotta take good care of you to make it up to Mattsun.” Oikawa's eyes narrowed at him but the corner of his mouth ticked up playfully. Makki darted forward to capture his lips, loving that while they were still cold, it was a more bearable cold now. He didn't feel like shivering. He felt like taking hold and never letting go.

“Hmm,” Oikawa hummed against his lips as he pulled away, “awfully confident for a new blood. Might have to put you in your place, little cub. Remind you that, at least for now, you belong to me.” Oikawa pushed him down onto the bed, but he didn't feel helpless this time. He felt strong and hungry, like he could fight back or escape if he wanted to. But he didn't want to. 

“Show me. Show me everything. Break me apart, like you threatened to do to my art, and rebuild me into something new. Something brutal.” And as the elder vampire pressed his icy tongue into Makki's mouth, he let himself be taken by the moment. There would horror and battle ahead, but for now, it was just this perfect and immortal pleasure, spun together with a touch of frost.


End file.
